Author has written 233 stories for General, General, Humor, Life, and Love.

To gather what it is on which I base my writing would be something to the effect of the impossible. Not that it is terribly impossible to do so, I just don't think anyone can. I hope that doesn't sound egotistical, pig-headed, or just down right "tooting-my-own-horn"ish. To be quite honest, I range from depressing to rather off the wall bizzare and don't really quite understand myself when I try to think of a response to the simple question of, "Hey," despite the fact that it's not a question.

Take mould for example. No one really understands where my interest in mould comes from, not that I'm even all that interested in it. To be honest again, I quite dislike the stuff. My point is that there's no telling why I bothered to mention mould, as if it were an intrical part of our everyday societal workings. And even though it is, since it eventually grows on everything that was at one time alive, it is still something that we choose not to think about. Perhaps that's why I mentioned it, since I too am like that sometimes. Just think of me as mould!

No, wait, that's not good. Some might call that a bad impression. Okay, don't think of me as mould, but think of me as something like it in that I grow on things that could be said to have at one time been alive.

Dang, another bad impression. Well I seem to have not just dug myself into a rather deep hole, but I'm filling the dirt back in on myself. How about I try another way of putting all this:

I am insane.

How's that for summing it all up? I suppose by this point, provided you're still reading this or even that you can read this, you would have surmised that already, but in case you missed it, there you go.

Reading my work is a job for a gorilla with nothing better to do than scratch my back with an oak twig that it found on the ground under a maple tree while reading childrens stories to a gathering of emus on their way to Hollywood to star in a new movie called "Me and my Emu" starring a bunch of no-name actors from Tibet...but you can read them too if you want. That is to say that by reading them, you don't become said gorilla with all that other gobble-dee-gook, but you do see what I mean.

Maybe.

My more recent pieces of writing have been mainly poetry, all of which are depressing. But then, that's not terribly surprising; slap a goofy grin on a bucket of sadness, and you would have something that looks a little like me...only, without the bucket part...forget the bucket part! It's like the mould thing!

More about me? I'm 26 and I used to, but no longer attend classes at Trent University. I am Canadian, born and raised. I currently live in Mississauga, Ontario, but if I had a job there I'd move back to Peterborough, where Trent University is. I used to like throwing cards into a recycling bin for fun, and when I had my door open, people in the hallways give me funny looks...but not because of the cards and the recycling bin. That was back when I lived in residance, but now I live in Mississauga, where there's jackall to do if you haven't got a car.The youth of our fair citywould bepretty much screwed if it wern't for the public transit system. Even then, the ride is so long you just might cack on your way anywhere. I'mnot exactlysure why, but it might have something to do with the mould...oh wait, crap! I didn't say that... anyway, I'm just kidding about the mould...or am I? Muahahahahahahaha!

Anyway, I'm a very sad, pathetic, lonely man and I should probably be shot (a couple of times... or poked with a really dull knife for a couple of hours), but I make do with my time; so, whether it's amazingly well written or just a bunch of scribbled dribble that should have been burned a long time ago, let me know what you think of my writing, I don't really care. However, everyone likes it when they're told that their writing has had an affect on someone else's life, even if it is falsly given praise...hint, hint.

Now, back on the subject of mould, I think I need a new jell-o mould...in fact, I don't have one to begin with, so there must be something amiss there. Sometimes I like to mould gum into the shape of the top of my mouth by pressing it up with my tongue. It's quite thrilling when I'm bored... or, maybe not...just maybe. I think there's some mould growing on my leg, but that might just be hair... in fact, it's gum shaped like the roof of my mouth... I guess it's mould after all.

On a lighter note, I think I've started sparatically changing from sane to insane at random points of time. It's loads of fun; I highly recomend it for parties. Did you know that I have a giraffe? It's not growing mould, but it sometimes likes to eat it. Up above a ways, up in all that dribble you've been reading, I suggested that you might think of me as a bucket. Well, not a bucket, but a bucket of sadness. And not just that, but a bucket with a goofy grin slapped on the side...filled then with sadness.Yeah, I think that's how it goes. Now, if you take that bucket and stick it on the head of a teddy-bear, you'd probably be closer to having something like me...metaphorically speaking,of course. My giraffe agrees.

Far from growing mould, my absolute favourite band is the Icelandic group, Sigur Rós, as if anyone actually cares. I'm now going to rant about them for a bit 'cause I feel that people don't do it enough... or at all, in fact (err!!). Their music defies definition as anything but "amazing," thoughsome try to pass it off as mere rock. Sadly, however, the rock music industry is rapidly growing mould, and I'll be damned if I admit that Sigur Rós performs rock. Sure, they use guitars...and drums...and whatnot...and some of their music does have a rock-ish sound...but that's only because they have managed to surpass rock music altogether! They are like a stage of evolution for the genre and I very much like the direction they're going in. My giraffe agrees... again...

Okay, I admit it, I don't have a giraffe.

If you want to know which is my favorite piece below, it's my story "A Sparrow in the Lion's Den." I think it's one of my most powerfully vivid and disturbing stories. After that is "In Silence," "Sleepless With Some Cattle," "The Faint Murmer of a Beating Heart," "The Sound of Leaves Falling," and "Carried in the Wind." If you read only one thing more of my writing, I suggest it be one of those. Obviously I'm not too fond of my poetry, since that's what this list is mostly comprised of. If I had to choose some of the poetry to recommend, it would be my newest entrys as well as "Misery," and "Time Ticking." I can't really remember the whole list at this time, so there may be others, but for now that'll have to do.

Lastly, I'd like to quote Mork and Mindy by saying, "No matter how strange or bizarre you are, there'll always be someone who'll love you for it."

So please enjoy my writing, drop me a line sometime, and be sure to check out left field, since that's where most of this stuff came from.

Oh, one last thing: If anyone asks, I've gone to find myself. Now, if I return before I get back, just ask the giraffe to keep an eye on me. It has to be the giraffe, though, since if anyone else is to look upon me, I fear I'll grow mould. And not even the pleasant green life-saving kinda mould either; something worse...much...much worse...shudders

This started as an attempt to write a poem about a friend of mine; she asked me a while ago to write a poem about her, but I didn't think I could - or should. Although, instead of being about her it became more of an allusion to how I've felt about her la

I'm sort of confused as to whether I want to continue living my life the way I am and whether I want to start living a different one, and I think this sort of reflects that. Again, writer's block - cow dribble - the usual.

I originally wanted this concept for a short story, and I probably will use something like it again later, but for now here's the latest installment of my plant fetish. Something to do with stalking (no pun intended).

This is the story of Pipper, a curious little brown rabbit. It's Christmas time in the forest, and Pipper is in need of the greatest gift of all: a new home. Where will he find it? Read to find out. (Last Updated - December 6th, 2004)

I think I was in a rather depressed mood (had to be, surely) when this errupted and seems to focus on how there are so many things we "fail" to do that we make big fusses over sometimes when it doesn't matter...something like that.

I think I was tired at school one time early in October, 'cause this poem reflects physical aspects of the school while attracting the people with it, sort of, but mixing all that with a sleepy dreamlike world that is rather negative.

It seems rare for me to write in rhyme, but at least it's not all couplets. I guess it's sort of about secretly falling in love or something, and if so, than never revealing it either. Something like that.

Wow, another of my rare rhyming poems. I ought to rhyme more often I suppose, but sometimes I'm too lazy. I wrote it a couple of months ago and, quite frankly, looking back at it now I have no idea what it's about.

I may have been sitting on what I call "my balcony" when I wrote this. Autumn just starting and the leaves changing, I thought I'd write a poem about it. It also paints the narrator as someone who doesn't fit in the autumn world.

After a long absence caused by the separation of me and the internet, I've finally gotten around to uploading my stockpile. This is some kind of metaphor using the moon and the coming murder of me...so to speak.

I believe I'm becomming rather cynical towards my fellow man, since the majority of my latest stuff seems to reflect that. Mankind bashing at its best, I suppose, though that is a little tooting-my-own-hornish, so maybe it sucks.

I sort of picture an old man sitting on a porch, philisophically describing the world to his grandchildren while death is lurking in the shadows somewhere, all within this poem...but it's not depressing! Not really at least.

I honestly don't know how to summarize this poem. It's actually more like 4 poems in one that all share themes and pass from one idea to the next to create the whole poem thing that I was going for with it. It's a strange poem.

About being ripped from where you want to be to where you have to be, essentially...something like that. It's like saying, especially at the end, that I want to be in paradise but I have to be here with "nothing."

It was suggested to me that I should write something humourous, so I thought sure. Then it was suggested that I write something humourous about pogo sticks. I though, sure, why not. This is the result.

A farmer's house burns down and he's only got one other choice of a place to sleep: his barn. As things go bump in the night, he goes more and more insane. This story is terribly bizarre...by every definition of the word!

It's reading break and practically everyone is gone; I think there are about 10 people still here. Anyway, as a result, it's TOO quiet and I'm rather lonely. So this is a poem about being lonely...sort of.

I was eating a day-old slice of cheese pizza when I noticed my daily callander hadn't been changed. It has funky old words/terms on each day. This poem is derrived from today's, Feb 14, "Rotten logging." Quite fitting for the day.

I tried something rather odd with this poem, physically as opposed to meaning. I've writen something like this before, but I "lost" it, so this is the replacement. I've compared myself to a famous little puzzle.

This is a strange little poem I wrote mostly during a psychology lecture...I was obviously captivated by the subjust of personalities and Sigmond Freud. Anyway, it's about bullies, in a strange sort of way.

Now, I could tell you what this poem is about, and yes there is an actual meaning to it, but if I told you it would take away a lot of the silliness. At least the rubber chicken will be happy about that...

This is possibly the longest poem I've writen; please don't let that discourage you. It's about being secretly in love with someone; something like that. I was pretty supped up on coffee when I wrote it, hense the inspiration.

There is very little that I can say about this poem except that it is almost without a doubt a love poem...in fact, that "almost" almost doesn't need to be there...that one too. It's about wanting to love someone forever, I guess.

I'm afraid the info about this poem lies. It's only half in English. In fact, the poem isn't in English at all...only the translation is. The poem is first writen in Latin, then followed by English. It's writen about someone who is dying/dead.

This poem is about that person that you see across the room and it suddenly hits you that this person is something of a God: superior, better, what ever else. It's about the kind of person you practically worship.

Another poem that I tried to write as a more uplifting sort. This one is actually sort of lame, I suppose, depending on your take of this sort of thing. It's a poet comparing the world to a woman that he seems to fancy, or something like that.

This is a story about a sparrow in a battlefield, where rain, mud, and mankind have destroyed everything. Its a bit of a depressing story, but I think the descriptive imagery is wonderful, or so my sister said.

I got to thinking that the majority of my poems are rather depressing, and so I thought I'd try something a little different. This is essentially a "bad" attempt at a love poem of sorts, though it's probably still depressing.

A friend of mine suggested I write another one of these stories, which means there may be more in the future. This one has an encounter with a man playing a fiddle. It may, perhaps, not be as humourous as the first, but if you haven't read the first tha

This is becoming, by far, one of my favorite stories. It's about a creature who in new to the world and a young woman who tries to help him find his soul. I'm actually quite interested to hear what people think.

This is a strange little story about a boy named Billy and his imaginary friend named Mikey. The only reason it's rated PG is because it's a little "demonic" or perhapse a bit morbid...I don't know...it's really wierd, how 'bout that? You might even fin

I wrote this poem after stumbling apon a dead groundhog in the path I was following. Where most people would have been grosed out, I was curious...and inspired. I'd like to dedicate the poem to that groundhog, however lame that may sound.

What does a phone, a highway, and some rats all have in common? No, not the phone booth at the corner of highway 10 and Lakeshore! They're all things used in this poem to describe the simple, yet time consuming, act of going to school...sorta...

This is about a wise tree telling a story to an elf about another elf who had come to the tree in search of an answer to a riddle. The tree recounts the story that the elf tells about his quest to find the answer to his riddle. WARNING: This story is w

This is a very strange little story I wrote a while ago. I don't know what the hell I was thinking when I did, but whatever it was...whoa! It's about a guy standing at the side of the road...if I say more, I'd give the story away in the summary. Enjoy..

This is another of my bus stories; there are 3 in total (so far). It started out as a re-write of "In Silence" but turned into something funny instead. It's about a guy riding the bus and what happens when he get's irritated by the behaviour of himself a

This story is about a doctor in a mental hospital who meets a patient named Edward with an interesting past. It's sorta a lame attempt at a horror story, but it still might give someone chills. I wrote it almost 2 years ago, it's one of my first, and it'

I'm not sure what I was thinking when I wrote this poem. I was sitting in the Home Depot parking lot when I started it, and finished it at Canadian Tire later (all during work...). I suppose it can be taken two ways (at least), but which way is entirely

This is a poem I wrote sort of about a fellow co-worker who has been having a lot of trouble in his life right now. Since it's personal to him, I'm not going to get into it, but that still just about sums it up.

I'm not sure exactly how good this is since I've had the unfortunate writer's block phenomena happening for the past few days, but it's something I guess. I wrote it while sitting in the van at work and thinking about the rain that had fallen earlier in

This is a poem I wrote while siting in the back lot where I work. I was inspired simply by the sound of a bird singing somewhere nearby and that led to the creation of the rest of the poem by me simply looking around.

This has to be the most bizzare poem I've ever writen, even stranger than "Something More Than Words." Read it, you might find it meaningful in some way or another, that or you might enjoy it. Either way, please read.

"A poem" is just about the only way I can properly describe this in a concise manor to prevent people from getting distracted by too many big words. The only problem is that I type to much, but I guess you already noticed that. This is, as I said, a poem

This is a sweet little story about a little girl at her mother's funeral. I know that sounds strange: a sweet story about a funeral, but there's more to it than that. You'll have to read it to find out what I mean.

This is yet another story about me. It's sorta like one big huge metaphor about my life, so it touches me more than anyone else I suppose. It's about a man who is the sole surviver of a plane crash somewhere in the arctic circle.

This is a sort of moving piece...I guess you could say. It's not depressing and it's not really happy...it's sort of in between. It's about a group of friends out on a camping trip at a public campground...or something like that...it's actually about on

This is another depressing little story I wrote about a narrator and his relationship with a man with schizophrenia. It's kinda sad and reminded some people of a certain movie, but so far I've had good feedeback from it.

To be honest, this story is pathetic. It is a rough little story about a teenager riding a transit bus and the different things he sees and does. A lot of it is based on fact from my own experiences, but if you've read my profile thingy, this is a prime

I'm not sure exactly what to say about this story. It's INCREADIBLY depressing...at least it is to me, since it's about me. It's about a teenager riding a bus and thinking about his life. It's one of the most personal stories I've ever writen and I've

This is a very short, very silly, and very stupid story about a drunk in an alley. Essentially it's saying that if you're drunk you might hallucinate some pretty whacked things, either that or you'll write them...

If you bother to read this, you might find that it's not very good plot wise. I haven't asked many people to read it yet...if any...I don't remember exaclty, but it has to do with alien abductions...sort of...okay, it does, but it's not sci/fi!

Another depressing little poem that I wrote about myself. This is essentially about the inner struggle of the mind to fumble through everyday life when all you feel is sadness and pain...sounds like fun!

Another poem writen in my OAC Writer's Craft class in about 15 minutes and again, it's better than you might think. It's sorta about how we're all children at heart...I think...that's providing I can interpret my own work, which, to say the least, I can'

Oh boy! Another one of my works that lacks the proper substance to be given a decent summary. I wrote this about myself and feelings that I actually had/have...I don't wanna get into that...hehe......anyway, it's not THAT bad so give it a good reading or

This is a sad, somewhat depressing, poem that I spilled out again in about 15 minutes for Writer's Craft. It's about a lost loved one...sortof....well yes, but it's not really what you think...let's put it this way: it's a decent poem.

Just another poem that I wrote about something, but I'm not sure what it was. It'll probably come to me later, but as far as I can remember it was something like...okay, I give up. I'll find out later and remind myself so that I can promptly kick myself